


Queen of Swords

by rufflefeather



Category: teen wolf - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-13
Updated: 2014-03-13
Packaged: 2018-01-15 14:44:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1308646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rufflefeather/pseuds/rufflefeather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek lets Stiles recreate the chessboard setting in his loft. Not because Derek thinks it will help them, but because it might do Stiles good to feel useful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Queen of Swords

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this screenshot](http://fuckderekhale.tumblr.com/post/79337491261/so-i-was-making-screencaps-and-i-just) and my own head canon to go with it. 
> 
> Thanks Lolafeist for the beta!

Derek slides the loft door open soundlessly, the faint scent of oiled hinges rising through the dust specks drifting in the sunbeams. 

“I have a… work thing, to go to,” Sheriff says when Derek lets his eyes move from him to Stiles, and then to the new deputy behind them. Parrish, or whatever his name is, the Star Wars fan.

“And I can’t stay by myself,” Stiles says. He lifts his face with a small smile. To anyone not paying attention it might’ve seemed like he made eye contact, but he didn’t.

“Okay,” Derek says. 

“Because I can’t be trusted.” The small smile twists.

“That’s not true,” the sheriff says, quiet and heartfelt. He puts his hands on Stiles’ shoulders and turns him so they are face to face. “It’s because you don’t trust yourself.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. He doesn’t look at anyone, but his gaze snags on the sheriff’s badge and he quickly looks down. A draft brings the acrid scent of guilt and disgust into Derek’s loft, and he wants to close the door on it.

“Come on in,” he says instead, and steps aside. Stilinski pulls Stiles into a hug, and Stiles stands there, taking it with his arms lax by his sides. The sheriff looks down and away. He lost weight, over the past couple of weeks, and despite the fresh shower and the mouthwash, Derek can smell stale alcohol clear as day. 

As he nods goodbye to the sheriff and Parrish, Derek notices how freshly ironed their uniforms are. Their shoes are polished to a shine and each wears a black band around one arm. So that’s where they’re going. And that’s why Stiles can’t come.

Derek slides the door shut and turns around. Stiles is standing in the middle of the loft, like he took five steps and stopped, unable to work out what else he’s supposed to be doing. Fuck if Derek knows.

“Do you want—” he begins, rounding on Stiles, giving him some space. He doesn’t know who this Stiles is now. It certainly isn’t someone whose personal space can be so easily invaded anymore.

“That’s…” Stiles croaks, lifting a shaky finger and pointing it at the chess set on the table, its pieces all in disarray. Stiles moves toward it and Derek only has time to pocket one piece before Stiles is leaning on the table, frowning down at the board. “I had one of these. Didn’t I?” Stiles stares out at nothing, like he can't even remember his own bedroom. “I—he—the Void did something to it?”

“Yes. He rearranged the pieces.”

“There was a reason.” Stiles frowns. His breath comes shallow and too fast, but not like he’s particularly distressed. Just like that’s how it is, now. 

_Yes_ , Derek thinks.  _It was a trap. For me, for your dad. So we’d fight the Oni for you._

He doesn’t say that, obviously. Because while they’d been tricked by the trickster, it was still Stiles’ body they’d protected. Or was it? He doesn’t know if anything is wrong with this Stiles’ body, as strange as its rebirth was. But he can’t tell if it’s entirely right either. Too many debilitating emotions swirl around him, too much interference to scent out anything else, anyway.

“Maybe…” Stiles says quietly, “maybe if I can remember. If I can work out what he did, maybe it will help. To find him. To know what he… what it wants.”

It wants chaos. It wants pain, and to cause as much as possible of it. We know what it wants, just not how to kill it.

“Okay,” Derek says. “Go ahead.”

“Right.” Stiles laughs, or maybe coughs, Derek can’t tell. “Can we um, move it to the floor? I can’t—“ He makes a gesture that could mean anything from, I can’t concentrate, to I can’t carry my own weight for more than five seconds.

“Sure.” Derek picks up the board, carefully balancing the pieces in the V in the middle and moves it to a patch of sunshine neatly outlined by the large loft windows. Because Stiles shivers like he’s cold, although Derek isn’t sure that’s the reason. 

He kneels beside Stiles, who feverishly picks up each piece and puts it down again. Once or twice a little pawn slips from his fingers and he curses under his breath every time. It makes his heart rate pick up to a speed that is in no way healthy. Every piece still has its name attached to it, in Derek’s loopy handwriting rather than Stiles’ angular print.

“It made you king,” he says, holding up the piece. It shakes so hard the little post-it note falls off. Derek picks it up and carefully sticks it back. He waits until Stiles looks at him.

“The king of bad decisions,” Derek says mildly, smiling.

Stiles snorts and there’s a little twinkle in his eyes. It doesn’t last long, but it was there. A small glimmer of hope. 

“Not anymore, I think,” Stiles softly says. He puts the King down and stares. The pieces are more or less like the Void had left them.

“Does it mean anything to you?” Derek asks. Stiles just sits with his head bent, looking down at the chess board. There’s no reaction for a long time, so Derek settles back, hooking an arm around his knee as he waits. Stiles looks wrecked, and really, how could he not? Derek is about to ask him again if he wants something to drink, because those cracked lips make him wince in sympathy, when Stiles straightens a little.

“Lydia’s not on the board.”

“No. I think he didn’t know about her. I think… it worked in your advantage, in the end. Maybe you—the real you—left her off on purpose.”

Stiles lifts his head, eyes wide. There’s something desperate there, something willing to fight so hard if only he could grasp on to something, anything at all, to fight for. “You think so?” 

“Yes.”

Derek lifts the piece he’d grabbed earlier from his pocket, and sets it in the palm of Stiles’ hand. 

It’s the queen, the most powerful piece of all, the one that can walk any road, take the path of destruction. And victory. It has a little note on it. 

_Stiles._


End file.
